


Don't Bring Me Here

by roseluu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 11:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15706092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseluu/pseuds/roseluu
Summary: If you would like to touch me, you may.





	Don't Bring Me Here

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Touch

It’s a bit sad he hasn’t noticed yet, him hidden underneath the sun. It’s warm today. Not too hot, but hot enough he’d stripped off his socks with the rest of his clothing. Though, the windows glinted the rays of sun directly onto his back, and he felt his skin browning at a much faster rate than usual. He thinks about suggesting going outside, even his tan out a bit. But he hasn’t even _looked_.

Young eyes – that must be it. Young eyes that don’t stray too much when uninterested. He’d be interested if he’d notice _._

It takes several more minutes of him basking underneath the late afternoon clouds, the sinking horizon, and the other scribbling at something at his desk, out of Feliciano’s sight. The clock ticks from the corner of the room, and his breathing follows the rhythm. He wonders why Ludwig doesn’t listen to some music, or open the windows for the chatter of his people to float inside.

“You should get a radio, or something,” Feliciano says, sleep still stuck in the back of his throat. He adds more: kicking his right leg up, arching his back, stretching like a cat by the uncovered windows, then settling back down.

“It’s distracting,” Ludwig says and turns a piece of paper – a legal document most likely, something about this-that, more laws being covered, something about a statue, or a road, or a criminal – and Feliciano laughs softly.

“It’s not _that_ distracting.” He drawls the white sheets up towards his mouth, pressing them there. They now smell less like Ludwig and more like Feliciano’s cinnamon shampoo. “It will take your mind off things.”

A sharp pen scratches at the desk’s wood. “My mind is supposed to be on something.” Before Feliciano can wrap his head around a reply, Ludwig continues, “While you have time, can you check that letter that was addressed to you?”

“It’s downstairs,” Feliciano whines.

“It’s better to get it done now. We won’t have time tomorrow.”

Feliciano flops his head into the bundle of sheets, kicking up another leg. “It’s too far, Ludwig.”

“It’s downstairs on the kitchen counter.”

“Hm.” He curls to his side, drawing his knees closer to his chest, blinking at the sun, slowly turning orange, before closing his eyes and breathing evenly. A thick flap of paper flaps.

Ludwig warns, “You’re not getting out of it.”

“Too far,” he mumbles.

The sun’s touch roves further up the walls, slowly, as the silence stretches over them. Feliciano eventually rolls to his other side to catch the heat before it leaves completely. Now he can see Ludwig tapping at his temple with his pen, the pinch between his brows deeper than it had been hours ago. Feliciano stretches his arms above his head, tucks them under his pillow, and thumps his legs against the mattress. No luck. He laughs aloud. Nothing.

He ends up closing his eyes, wishing he could sleep. He can’t – he’d been resting all day since their meeting with the chancellor.

“Ludwig,” he sighs.

“Yes?”

He doesn’t answer. The pen scratches slow after a moment of silence. Ah, he’d noticed.

“We should go for gelato tonight,” Feliciano says, his voice muffled in the crook of his arm. He again kicks up a leg, this time slowly, bowing the small of his back. He reminds himself this is, quite honestly, cruel, but it’s been a thing of his – theirs – for a very, very long time. And, he can’t bring himself to stop, not when Ludwig can’t seem to grapple for the understanding of _theirs_.

A paper folds, quietly, a low noise to drown Ludwig’s quiet, “Sure.” Feliciano wishes he’d added his name. It always sounds better. Nervous. Fluttery. Warm, with a pinch of cold, because Ludwig does not – and probably will never – spring forward at the chance to roam around in his words.

Everything falls nearly silent. It almost puts Feliciano to sleep. Ludwig shuffles documents every time Feliciano falls the smallest hint short in his deep breathing.

He’s done this long enough to know when it take too long. Conjures annoyance, disappointment – if only he’d learn – and, at the very least, confusion. Hell, Ludwig sometimes can’t speak coherently to him when it comes down to it. Once again: It’s long, old. It’s theirs. Feliciano wants to say it, he knows it’ll feel nice.

“If you would like to touch me, you may,” he says.

Ludwig takes a moment – always does – to himself. Feliciano allows it. Then Ludwig stands from his chair, the legs grating against the wooden floors, a strong sound that somehow doesn’t break the air. Feliciano laughs, he can’t help it, but he stops when Ludwig sits at his feet on the mattress, dipping it down. Feliciano’s body slips fully into the sun. He’s warm, he’s content. Ludwig feels like a buzzing heap of, well, Ludwig, beside him.

His hand. Starts at his calf, soft, pulls away. Appears again. Glides up the hollow of his knee, his thighs, his behind, up to his back. Rests at the middle, slightly above his tailbone, on one of the knobs of his spine.

Ludwig shakes. Ludwig burns, more than at the edges of his fingertips. Ludwig puts his palm over the soft jut of his shoulder blade. His neck, the column of his throat, his jaw, then his face. Then his hands. Ludwig winds his fingers through his, regrets it, settles for stroking his thumb over Feliciano’s sharp knuckles.

He pulls away. Feliciano knows he’ll get there, someday.

“The sun is setting,” Ludwig says. He says it like it takes every ounce of strength to choke the words through his throat. It nothing new.


End file.
